Practice runs with the efficiency of a machine designed for my destruction. I’m stretching at the boards, maintaining perfect captain’s posture when Jenna materializes with her followers. Their synchronized approach suggests careful rehearsal, and my stomach drops.

“Maddie, you’ll never guess what I saw this weekend,” Jenna begins, her voice pitched to carry across the rink. “The most adorable little auto repair shop on Riverside. Very quaint, very authentic aesthetic. Does your father do the actual work himself, or does he supervise from his corner office?”

The words land with sniper precision. Around us, several teammates pause their warm-ups. Information travels through the rink like blood through water. I watch understanding dawn on faces, watch my mythology crack in real time.

“My father’s business ventures are diverse,” I respond with a smile that costs everything. “Auto repair was merely the foundation for larger enterprises. Very American dream trajectory. From grease to gross profits, as he likes to say at our dinner parties.”

But the damage is done. Jenna’s smile sharpens into something victorious. Carol and Mary exchange glances that suggest my social obituary is being drafted. The lie that protected me has become the weapon destroying me, and we all know it.

“Of course,” Jenna agrees with poisonous sweetness. “How silly of me to assume otherwise. I’m sure the shop is just a charming tax write-off. Very strategic. Your family seems to understand strategy so well, especially creative storytelling.”

Practice continues but I’m on autopilot. My body executes jumps while my mind calculates my downfall’s velocity. Every whisper feels directed at me. Every glance carries judgment. The walls I built are crumbling, and all I can do is smile through the demolition.

Coach calls a combination and I perform it perfectly. Perfect execution is all I have left. The other girls watch with new eyes, seeing cracks in the facade. My landing is flawless but my hands shake reaching for water. Jenna watches me like a cat who’s discovered the mouse is already injured.

Midnight finds me at the empty rink because insomnia and self-destruction have become reliable companions. The ice stretches before me like a canvas for my inadequacy. I push through my routine repeatedly until my legs shake and lungs burn with the exhaustion of outrunning yourself.

The triple lutz lands wrong. My edge catches, and I hit the ice hard. I get up immediately because stopping means acknowledging futility. Push off, set up, jump. Land. Repeat. Each element must be perfect. If my skating is flawless, maybe it compensates for everything else being fiction.

“What the hell are you doing?” Emily’s voice cuts through like an accusation wrapped in concern. She stands at the boards in sweats and that oversized hoodie that makes her look like the girl I knew before we became these complicated versions.

“Practicing,” I respond without stopping, my voice echoing off empty seats. “Some of us need extra work to maintain our positions. Very dedicated captain behavior, wouldn’t you agree? Though I suppose you wouldn’t understand that particular pressure.”

“It’s past midnight and you’re destroying yourself for what? To prove something to Jenna? To the team that already knows?” She steps onto the ice without skates, walking toward me carefully. “This is insane even by your standards of self-punishment.”

“I have to be perfect,” I hear myself say, exhaustion forcing honesty. “If my skating is perfect, if I’m technically flawless, maybe it justifies everything. Maybe it proves I deserve to be here even if everything else about me is manufactured lies and borrowed confidence.”

Emily grabs my shoulders with surprising force. Her fingers dig into muscle that’s been clenched for years. “Your skating has nothing to do with your father’s job. Nothing to do with clothes or personas or survival stories. Your skating is yours. It exists separate from Madison Reyes’s performance.”

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